


Becoming Somebody

by theborogoves



Category: East of Eden - John Steinbeck
Genre: Cyrus Trask being Cyrus Trask, Gen, Pre-East of Eden
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-12
Updated: 2015-03-12
Packaged: 2018-03-17 12:07:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3528803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theborogoves/pseuds/theborogoves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This was written by me, and my amazing friend, Dana. Give her a round of applause, she deserves it.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Becoming Somebody

**Author's Note:**

> This was written by me, and my amazing friend, Dana. Give her a round of applause, she deserves it.

[ 1 ]

Cyrus Trask was born kicking and screaming, and his nurses found it difficult to believe he was in that much discomfort right off the bat. He probably wasn’t; he had a predisposition for lying, and he developed this habit from the cradle. Cyrus’s birth in 1842 marked the end of a blissful era for Edith and Arthur Trask, and Edith soon became completely occupied caring for her first born son. He was a colicky infant, and Edith soon became accustomed to going about her life with his persistent wailing like one would get used to a radio constantly blaring in the background.

From the very start, it became apparent that Arthur Trask was not meant to be a father, nor did he care to try. After all, the only thing children were good for was labor. This was the way Arthur’s father had raised him, and he intended to continue the practice. It was fortunate he had a mother; otherwise, little Cyrus would have had a childhood of complete neglect. Edith would be hard-pressed to name a day when Arthur didn’t stumble into the house past midnight reeking of alcohol.

As Cyrus grew older, his father became increasingly violent, distributing beatings as a doctor would distribute medicine. One could even say that their relationship became one reminiscent of a slave and his master. Constant labor was Cyrus’ only respite from his father’s beatings. He was always at work on the family farm in, a small plot of land just east of Bolton, Connecticut stricken by nearly untillable soil.

 

[ 2 ]

One day while working on the field, Cyrus saw a stranger approach in the distance.

“Hey! Hey!” he shouted, waving his arms about like a madman. It was rare for the Trasks to receive visitors. He ran out to meet the man.

“Howdy, sir. What’s your business here?” he asked in his belligerent manner.

“I was called out to work on the fence. The lady told me it was broken.” Cyrus was taken aback by his thick German accent. They walked briskly back to the farmhouse and Cyrus called to his mother to come out and meet the worker.

Edith came hurriedly out of the house, wiping her hands on her stained apron. Her hair was nearly falling out of its precariously perched bun, and her cheeks were hollow from malnourishment, but flushed with overexertion. A small, thin smile crept across her lips, and she rushed down the rickety steps, arm extended to meet the German.

“Hi, hello sir, how are you today? What am I to call you?”

“Frederick, ma’am. I am doing well, ma’am. I can see your problem, that fence is in need of some repair.”

Cyrus saw a small flush rise in his mother’s forehead. She sputtered a bit, and finally spat out, “Yes, yes it is isn’t it,” and added on an afterthought, “how strange.” Cyrus had no idea when or how the fence had been broken, or why she didn’t just ask him to fix it for her. Maybe this man could fix it better than him. He decided not to ask, his mother looked embarrassed enough already.

Cyrus shuffled away dejectedly, kicking a clod of dirt as he went. “I could have done that,” he huffed, “we don’t need no repairman.”

“Hush, child! Don’t you have work to do?” Edith snapped.

“Yes, mother,” Cyrus mumbled, turning away towards the fields.

Edith turned her attention towards the worker, “Please follow me, I’ll show you where it needs some work.” He nodded and followed her along a dusty path to the very edge of the farm that just barely touched the woods.

“I’ll get right on it ma’am”, he said smirking. “After all, we wouldn’t want any wild animals to get in, would we?”

Edith gulped and shook her head hurriedly before practically running back to the house. Frederick stared after her, craning his neck, and then turned to his work.

Back in the house, Edith stood at the counter wringing her hands and muttering “Arthur’s off at some bar, doubtless…won’t be back…no harm…” she trailed off and retrieved two tall glasses from the cabinet. She hesitated, and set them on the counter with a clatter before going out to the porch. There she relaxed on a rocking chair to watch Frederick work.

 

[ 3 ]

Cyrus had sulked off to the barn. It was a worn, ramshackle building, hay scattered haphazardly around the entrance. An overpowering stench of rotting hay permeated the barn’s interior, and was so steeped in the wood of the barn that it could never be separated. Cyrus flung himself down on a stinking pole of hay and buried his face in his hands. His back ached dully where his father had struck him with a pipe the previous day.

A prickling heat was creeping up his neck, beginning to tingle in his cheeks. He rubbed his eyes furiously, violently, trying in vain to prevent the onset of tears, but it was no use. He felt useless, weak, unimportant. The slurred, foul breath of his father echoed ceaselessly in his skull, crashing, every word carrying the power of a blow; “You worthless, stupid, child, I regret ever having you! I wish I had a halfway decent son, the kind you couldn’t be. You’ll never amount to anything, not with my rotten blood in your veins. You’re nothing! Nothing.” Cyrus curled into a ball, his hands clutching at his hair. “You’re nothing,” He whispered. “Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing…” He trailed off and lay there shaking and rocking slowly.

At some point Cyrus must have fallen asleep, for when he became conscious, the sun had already slipped beneath the barn window. Hay stuck to his snotted face when he sat up. He muttered with frustration as he scraped it off with his fingernails, leaving long red lines down his pale, bloodless cheeks.

Cyrus shuffled sleepily out of the barn and down the rutted path to his house. He judged that he must have been asleep for nearly three hours; the sun had set completely. As he approached the house, Cyrus spotted the German exiting through the back door.

“Shouldnt’ve taken him that long to fix the damn fence,” Cyrus grumbled, kicking a rock along. “I could have done it faster.”

He slammed through the front door and kicked his shoes off.

“Ma! Ma, I’m hungry. I fell asleep in the barn…” Edith came rushing from her room, face flushed and hair in disarray. Furiously straightening her skirt, she muttered in a breathy, uneven tone, “I haven’t had time to start anything yet, dear, what would you like?”

“Um...chicken? Please?” It struck Cyrus as strange that his mother didn’t reprimand him for his brusque tone. He brushed it off and passed his mother to wash up. As soon as he left the room, Edith sighed heavily and relaxed. She put two empty glasses in the sink and began to prepare the chicken for when Arthur arrived home, “ _Whenever that’ll be_ ,” she added in an undertone to herself.

Edith didn’t notice her child’s bloodshot red eyes, and Cyrus didn’t notice his mother’s guilty ones.

 

[ 4 ]

Edith continued her daily life of housework and caring for Cyrus. She started to get small cramps in her lower stomach, lasting long enough to be of notice, but not enough to be of concern. This lasted for four long months, the cramps getting progressively worse until one day they became too great for her to bear. Her internal struggle was over quickly. She had to see a doctor before this escalated further.

She traveled to the nearest town, about three miles away, in their buggy, and visited the only doctor in the area. He was a stocky man with a kindly, round face and a hoary beard, and the examination was over quickly. Edith could not have hoped for a worse diagnosis.

 

[ 5 ]

Edith silently paced around the living room, contemplating her fate as she faced the inner struggle of whether or not to tell her husband about the results of her doctor’s visit. The part of her that was trying to be a good wife said it was her responsibility to inform her husband of her predicament, but the self-preserving part told her that no good could come of such devastating news. Overwhelmed by her duty to her husband, Edith crept quietly to Arthur’s study, being careful not to wake Cyrus. She knocked on the door, waiting for a response, knowing that if she came in unexpectedly there would be consequences.

“Come in,” she heard Arthur’s monotonous voice call.

She quickly opened the door and shut it, hoping she had not caused a disturbance. “I needed to talk to you about something important,” she said nervously.

“Go ahead. I haven’t got all night.”

“Well…lately I’ve been having horrible stomach aches. I went to the doctor today…he said it was something bad…something called chlamydia,” she said.

“Chlamydia?” he asked, his brows furrowing. “What does that do?”

“He says it’s very painful and completely untreatable," Edith paused for a moment, trying to muster the courage to tell the truth. “He says I’ve lost the ability to bear children.”

“What!” he exclaimed angrily. “I should have known you were useless from the moment you started acting sweet on that boy. How’d you even get it anyway?”

At this, Edith ducked her head; her face flushed and she realized that the truth was out. Arthur noticed, the answer coming to him as his eyes narrowed in anger. “I always knew you were a whore. How much did he pay you?”

“But…I…” Edith stammered, but no words came out.

“Can’t even live up to it, can you? You really are nothing more than a no good whore, are you?” He reached into his desk drawer, furiously slamming books and papers out of the way, until he felt the sleek metal of his Colt pistol against his palm.

“Arthur! Arthur, please!” Edith shrieked when she saw the butt of the gun emerge from the desk.

“You no good, lying whore.”

“Arthur,” she was crying now, and backing away slowly, hands outstretched.

“You no good, filthy, LYING WHORE! Look what you’re making me DO!”

“You don’t have to do this, Arthur. I’m so sorry. I’m so lonely all the time, love, you’re never home. Please, darling, you know that I only love you.”

The clouds seemed to part from his eyes for a second, and his hand holding the gun went suddenly limp. He looked away. “You’re lying,” he whispered, almost inaudibly.

“ARTHUR!” Edith barely had time to shriek before his arm flew up. The recoil of the shot threw him backwards, and when he regained his footing he saw Edith lying prostrate, a gaping hole in her back. His feet were soaked with her blood. “I--I--Edith?”

Sobriety hit him like a train. “Cyrus,” he muttered. “What can I do about Cyrus?”

 

[ 6 ]

Blood was a difficult thing to scrub out of floorboards. Arthur had never scrubbed the floor before, he realized. Cyrus would be home from school in a few short hours, and he couldn’t have Cyrus walking in on his scrubbing his mother’s...no. He couldn’t have that.

Arthur cleaned methodically and thought analytically. The bubbles from the lye soap bubbled up, bloated and wet, between his fingers, and made his eyes sting. He wiped the back of his hand across his eyes and realized that they were streaming tears. _Clean the floor, bury the body_ , he repeated. _Clean the floor, bury the body, tell that damn kid his mother died from her illness. Clean the floor…_

The whole sordid process was over in two hours. Cyrus walked in the door in the late afternoon to find his father crumpled to the floor, bawling like a child. Out of everything his father had done to him, this was by far the most disturbing. When Arthur registered Cyrus’s presence in the hall, he spat out, “All I wanted was another, better son. Your mother is gone. Her sickness killed her. I’ll never have a son I can be proud of. She can’t give me a son...”

 

[ 7 ]

Long nights he spent locked away in his study drowning his sorrows in his one and only solace. Alcohol had always been his one true release, an easy way to escape. Admittedly, during recent times since Cyrus had been born, his drinking had gotten out of control. But he still relished the feeling of being free, able to take a few sips of whatever was in his glass, and far away he went. He didn’t drink to forget, no, he drank to remember. He could feel the memories pouring into his mind. Her smile, the oh-so tempting curve of her lips when they first met, her soft lips pressed against his in a chaste kiss, back when they were young and fumbling. The sweetness of her lovemaking, and how she would never fail to make him smile, even after an exceptionally bad day.

Life really is never fair, he mused to himself. Maybe if it wasn’t for that damn kid…No. Arthur forced himself to stop his train of thought. He knew deep down that this had nothing to do with Cyrus, that this was entirely his fault. No matter how much he pointed his finger, the blame couldn’t be put on anyone but him. The pain of that thought cut more deeply than the loss of Edith ever would.

One drink turned into two, and two to four, until Arthur was so drunk all day that he was unable to leave the house. Cyrus found a strange solace in his mother’s death and his father’s degradation; since her death, Arthur had been too distraught to abuse him, with words or with blows. Cyrus felt free, and he hated himself all the more for it. He was worse than nothing; he was an atrocity.

 

[ 8 ]

Four years later, Cyrus was awoken in the middle of the night by the sound of his father hacking violently across the hall. He rolled sleepily out of bed and stumbled to Arthur’s room. He found his father doubled over in bed, coughing into his bedsheets. When he came closer, Cyrus saw large splotches of blood on the sheet under Arthur’s mouth.

“Stay there! I’m calling for a doctor!” His father moaned in response. All animosity was temporarily forgotten as Cyrus raced out of the house and jumped on his horse. An hour later, he was back at the house with the kindly doctor in tow. They rushed together into Arthur’s room and found him passed out tangled in his sheets. The doctor waved smelling salts under Arthur’s nose and he came to with a hacking cough.

“Leave, boy. You shouldn’t be here.”

Cyrus obeyed the doctor’s commands and set himself pacing in the hall, wringing his hands all the while. His father had abused him for seventeen Cyrus still didn’t want him to die, if only because he didn’t want to be alone. He felt no emotional distress, only the fear of loneliness.

After what seemed like hours, the doctor emerged from Arthur’s room, his hands gloved and covered in splotches of crimson blood.

“Come here, lad. I have to talk with you.”

“Is he going to be alright?”

The doctor sighed and looked up at Cyrus, who had grown quite tall as he matured.

“I’m sorry, Cyrus. Your father was too far gone. He passed just now. I’m deeply sorry, I did all I could.” Cyrus expected to feel the blow, to feel the same wrenching pain he felt when he learned of his mother’s passing, but he felt nothing. He felt nothing...he should feel something, at least a small twinge at his father’s death! This lack of emotion scared him, rattled him to his bones, and he sank to the floor, clutching his hollow chest. It was then that Cyrus realized that he had never loved his father, even in the obligatory, resigned way that was all too common in most families...even further than that. Cyrus hated his father, hated him for every pain that he had inflicted, every mental torment that kept him awake at night crying that he was worthless.

The doctor knelt and placed his hand lightly on Cyrus’s shoulder. Cyrus barely registered the pressure. “Son, I know it’s a hard thing to lose a parent. Where is your mother? I remember that she came to me with her illness years back. What a shame, it left her infertile.”

After a few seconds Cyrus responded weakly, “Infertile?”

“Unfortunately, yes, but other than that she should have been fine after the medicine I gave her. Where is she, son?”

“She couldn’t have another son…”

“No...Cyrus, tell me where your mother is.”

“All he wanted was a better son…”

“Cyrus!”

“She’s dead, doc. My bastard father killed her.” Cyrus wished Arthur were still alive, if only to have the satisfaction of killing his father himself. Whatever hollow had been left by his lack of emotion was filled with the purest rage he had ever felt.

“What the hell do you mean by that, boy?”

“She’s dead. My father killed her because she couldn’t have another child. That’s what he always wanted, wasn’t it? A son he could be proud of. Because, god knows why, I was never enough.”

“Are you sure, boy? You can’t accuse people of crimes like that lightly. That’s murder in cold blood.”

“And my father was a cold-blooded murderer. There’s no other explanation.” “We have to take this to the sheriff, but you’re an orphan and underage. What are you going to do?”

“I’ve only got one option, doc. I’ve got to enlist. I can’t go to an institution.”

 

[ 9 ]

By the time night had fallen, the doctor had left with Arthur’s body, promising to take Cyrus to the Sheriff’s office tomorrow. Cyrus was secretly glad, knowing it would give him enough time to make his plan. He knew deep down that escape from his past would only come from leaving this horrible place behind. Maybe one day he could forget the stain from his mother’s blood on the wooden floor.

Quickly and silently, Cyrus gathered his things, all of which could fit in a small rucksack. He walked out into the moonlight, and with one last sweeping glance across the Trask farm, he was gone.

 

[ 10 ]

Weeks later found Cyrus on the edge of a river trying to spear fish. He had taken one of his father’s knives and used it to sharpen a stick. He pointlessly jabbed at the water with it; sighing as yet another fish splashed away.

Maybe I should’ve just got taken in, Cyrus thought. Anything seemed better than this, scrounging for food whenever he could and covering himself in leaves at night in an attempt not to freeze to death. He sighed last one time before standing up and heading towards town, hoping that he could talk someone into giving him something.

Finally, he rounded the corner of the church on the edge of town. He followed the scent of something greasy to the center of town, arriving at a quaint diner. He cautiously stepped inside, hoping he wouldn’t get hassled about his appearance. As he sat down at a booth, a waitress came bustling over, a suspicious look in her eyes.

“Can I get you anything, boy?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am. But I haven’t got any money, ma’am.” Cyrus looked at her with a pleading look in his eyes, hoping it was enough to communicate that he was very hungry and in need of a good meal.

Her eyes softened as she realized that he was a homeless orphan, just looking for some food. She walked off without a word, but Cyrus was sure that he was getting fed tonight.

Sure enough, the waitress returned with a large plate of delicious looking food, and set it down with a smile before walking off to serve another customer. Cyrus dug into his food, not bothering to savor it, just fill his stomach.

“Did you hear they’re looking for new recruits in the army?” Cyrus heard a young man say. “Yeah. I was thinking of applying. God knows it’s the only way I’m getting out of this damn town,” another man replied. The other responded with a knowing snort. They started to talk again, but Cyrus ignored the, his mind reeling. What if there was another way out? He resolved to visit the recruiting station in the morning, hoping that this would be his one true escape.

 

[ 11 ]

A bell rang as Cyrus stepped into the office, startling him and causing him to trip over his own feet and land on his face. A snicker arose from the man at the desk, and Cyrus’ cheeks flooded with color.

He picked himself of the floor and walked up to the recruitment desk, swallowing nervously.

“Excuse me?” Cyrus asked. “I’d like to enlist.”

“A scrawny little thing like you? What’s your name, boy?”

“Cyrus, sir. Cyrus Trask.” He extended his hand meekly and the officer shook it with a gloating grin. The grin turned sour as he felt the clammy sweat dripping from Cyrus’s palm, and he retracted his arm in disdain, wiping his hand theatrically on his pant leg.

“How old are you, _Mr._ Trask?”

“Seventeen, but I read that you don’t have to be of age…”

“Age isn’t the problem here, son. You’re lacking in basic form. I doubt you can even carry a musket, let alone fire one.”

“But sir, I…”

“No, boy, your admission papers would be as good as a death certificate. I couldn’t possibly allow myself to let you join the army.”

“Sir, I--I appreciate what you’re trying to do for me, but I have nowhere else to go. I’m orphaned, I have no other family. I have nobody. I am nobody.”

The officer looked down at Cyrus with pity, but he couldn’t bring himself to approve this boy. He wouldn’t last half an hour in battle. It would be suicide.

“I’m terribly sorry, Cyrus. I can’t let you join up today. You just don’t have what it takes.”

“Thank you, sir. Mark my words, I will come back again. You’ll see.” Cyrus meant to sound self-assured, but his words came out wobbly and rushed, and he hurried out the door before he could make more a fool of himself.

He rushed clumsily down the street, wiping his eyes as he went, and he felt a sudden impact. The girl was knocked backwards into the dirt, and nothing could have increased Cyrus’s embarrassment as much as this. “Oh god,” he mumbled. “Oh god, miss, I’m terribly sorry, I was in a rush, I didn’t see where I was going,--” He trailed off. She was staring intently up at his face. “Well don’t just stand there with your mouth open like a carp, help me up!”

Cyrus was taken aback by her brusque tone. She didn’t seem to be fazed at all. He extended a hand to her, she grasped it firmly and she pulled herself up from the ground.

“Looks like you’ve got something on your mind--” She paused for his name.

“Cyrus Trask.”

“Looks like you’ve got something on your mind, Cyrus.”

He self-consciously wiped his still damp eyes and smiled half-heartedly. She was really very beautiful, he noticed. Her eyes were a striking olive green and her skin was white and seemed petal soft, with just a few freckles across the bridge of her nose and her cheeks.

“Yes, I suppose there are a few things--and what’s your name?”

“Constance Maybury. Would you like to walk with me, Cyrus? I was just on my way to church.”

Cyrus had never stepped foot inside a church, but who was he to refuse such a beautiful young woman?

“Yes, I would like to. Thank you.” He extended his elbow and when she took it, every weight on his mind seemed to lighten.

 

[12]

Constance pushed a lock of hair away from her face as she continued to scrub the floor. Her knees started to ache as she finished the last spot, and when she tried to stand up, she found that she couldn’t.

“Cyrus! Cyrus, dear, can you come in here for a second?” she called.

Silence.

She realized suddenly that Cyrus was off at a bar. Ever since he had enlisted again, this time successfully, he was always off trying to wedge himself in with the who’s-whos of the G.A.R. His constant self-preening wore her nerves thin, and she was worried that he was trying to make himself into something he wasn’t. She remembered him mentioning a few choice names that were supposed to be in the area, but at the time, she couldn’t be bothered to remember who.

She sighed deeply as she awkwardly crawled towards the counter, hoping she could use her strength to push herself up. As she struggled to lift herself from the floor, she felt a tug in her stomach. A few minutes later another, more forceful. Constance realized that she was alone and had gone into labor.

 

[ 13 ]

Cyrus slammed his third pint of beer down onto the counter, body heaving with raucous laughter. “Corporal, I swear, you’ve got me at wit’s end here.” The men at the bar were all officers of high rank, successful reapers of any fame the war had to offer. And Cyrus, a private, had somehow managed to worm his way into their midst. He was a parasite, leeching off of others success to gain a shadow of it for himself.

The warm atmosphere of the bar and the alcohol-slurred company of these well-connected men was nearly too much for Cyrus. He almost began to believe the fantastic stories of heroism he had spun for them, and wore his imaginary medals with the weight of real honor. The bullet wound’s pain from Bull Run was still fresh in his memory, the sweet, mingling aromas of the whores’ perfumes still tangy in his nostrils. He remembered it all in vivid detail, and none of it had ever happened.

Despite his confident swagger, Cyrus was barely eighteen, and internally, he was still the weak boy that he once was externally. Cyrus’s laughter and his boisterous rambling stories masked his innate fear of rejection. It was with a half-reluctant desperation that he clung to these stories as the truth, afraid that if he couldn’t believe them himself, there would be no chance that the higher-ups would ever respect or believe him. Cyrus Trask was a cockroach and his lies were his armor; if his armor was smashed, there would be nothing left to save him. Occasionally, a fleeting thought of Constance flickered across his mind, but he brushed these off with ease. There was nothing that could happen to her at home, and besides, how could he possibly leave now? They all loved him, and he couldn’t disappoint them.

Occasionally, Cyrus unwitting, the two officers to either side of him passed an exasperated glance over his head, swilling their drinks and trying to drown him out.

“...and that’s when the bastard shot a slug right past me, so close I could feel my hair ruffle--”

“Alright, son, alright already,” the corporal interjected. “Have another pint on me and get the hell out of our hair.”

He turned back to his friends and tossed a nickel to Cyrus, who took it and walked away dejectedly. “Damn fools,” he muttered. “Don’t know what they’re missing.”

Cyrus wandered drunkenly back to his house, cursing the corporal all the way. As he neared the front path, he heard a strangled wail issuing from the window. He broke into a stumbling run and slammed open the door to find Constance doubled up in pain. “Cyrus, the baby. I need a doctor. Now.”

 

[ 14 ]

Adam Trask was a silent, brooding baby, often with an oddly vacant quality in his eyes. Cyrus couldn’t take care of him for long, and Constance did most if not all of the work regarding the new baby.

It wasn’t long before Cyrus’s regiment, the 22nd Connecticut, was called into action for the first time.

While all the other new recruits were nervously talking, Cyrus stayed silent. He didnt want to show fear in front of anyone, especially people he just met. He could feel his heart pounding and sweat staining his shirt as Commander Willbrook called for them to get in formation. He told them the basic battle strategy, but Cyrus didn't listen, knowing as soon as the other side started shooting he would run and hide.

A dull roar started, almost like a buzz at first but steadily becoming louder and louder until the sounds were recognizable as the the thundering of feet. Someone shouted at Cyrus to charge, but he stayed rooted to the spot, petrified. He watched as people he had only know for days were stabbed with bayonets or hit with slugs, their innards splattering across the already bloody ground. Countless were dead and barely half an hour had passed, by Cyrus’s account. He only moved to dodge incoming projectiles and get out of other people’s way. Despite his extensive experience fabricating heroic tales of war, Cyrus couldn’t even bring himself to lift his weapon.

Across the battlefield, Cyrus spotted a Confederate soldier crouched low, bayonet propped on a man’s body and trained directly on him. Cyrus couldn’t seem to move from his position out of fear. He could only watch as a cloud of black powder issued from the barrel of the gun and as the slug hit him square in the thigh, tearing muscle from bone and ligament from muscle. A wall of agony hit Cyrus seconds later and he fell backwards from the shock, screaming in anguish. His leg was bent in the wrong direction and there was a gaping hole in his upper thigh.

Just before Cyrus lost consciousness, a shadow of a thought came to him.

_Now I really have a story to tell._

He smiled with a grimace, and the sky went black.


End file.
